


injury

by light



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-15
Updated: 2012-07-15
Packaged: 2017-11-10 00:07:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/460027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/light/pseuds/light
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is recovering from a stab wound.  John goes into heat.  The timing really couldn't have been worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	injury

**Author's Note:**

> Self-edited. For the following [kinkmeme prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/18842.html?thread=113755802#t113755802) (& as always, for C): John & Sherlock are an established Omegaverse couple. They live dangerous lives and getting hurt happens. Whichever one of them you choose to make the Alpha is either injured, sick or otherwise so incapacitated that they can't get out of bed. It's right at this most inconvenient moment that the Omega goes into heat. Physically inacapable of responding to the intense mating urges as they'd like, the couple spend the duration of the heat curled up tightly together, noses pressed to each other's skin, longingly inhaling that good-smelling crazy pheremone tidalwave. Bonus for the incapacitated Alpha helping the Omega masturbate but being too tired/ill/in pain to get off themself.

“I’ll get you some gauze to take home,” the doctor says as he sets the clipboard back down at the end of the bed.

“It’s fine,” John says, “We’ve got plenty in the first aid kit. I stock up.” He jabs a thumb at Sherlock, “This one likes to get injured.”

“Are you sure?” the doctor asks.

John glances over his shoulder at Sherlock who’s making an effort to button up his shirt with clumsy fingers. “Quite sure. I think we just want to get out of here.”

The doctor leaves to get the discharge forms. Sherlock eyes the wheelchair that the nurses brought in earlier and his voice is a little slurred from the painkillers when he says, “This is hateful.”

“You did just get twenty three stitches for that stab wound,” John says, “And you’re high as a kite now. Don’t think you have much of a choice there.”

“You’re horribly ungrateful,” Sherlock accuses even as he leans his weight against John’s side. 

John helps him into the wheelchair and presses a kiss against his cheek, whispering, “You know I’m not.”

The doctor enters the room again, forms in hand. John straightens and takes the papers before fishing around in his pocket for a pen. The doctor says, “I wouldn’t be doing this except that you’re pretty knowledgeable about post-operative treatment, Dr. Watson.”

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t move too much,” John agrees and signs everything so they can go home.

~

Sherlock stays in bed and alternates between napping and demanding John to bring him new pathophysiology textbooks. John force feeds him lentil soup (the slash had cut deep enough that the doctors had been concerned about internal bleeding--so fuck if John’s going to let Sherlock eat anything real for a while) despite his complaints and multiple demands for an IV ( _honestly, John, it would be easier_ ). John’s been so busy trying to make sure that Sherlock doesn’t get his hands on his phone or tear open all his sutures out of sheer boredom on top of warding off Mycroft and filling out paperwork for Lestrade that it’s completely understandable when he forgets entirely.

On the second day that they’re home, John wakes up breathing a bit too hard with his side of the covers twisted around his legs, his skin heated. He shifts his hips against the bed, pressing down a tiny bit and gasps into his pillow at how good that feels. He’s half hard and--oh god--utterly fucked.

“John,” Sherlock sounds half awake next to John and one of his hands strokes along John’s side in a proprietary gestue. John wants to lean into the touch. He wants to pull all his clothes off and then pull all of Sherlock’s clothes off and--

“Christ,” John says. He shifts and spreads his legs involuntarily and fuck--that was the absolute wrong thing to do because the heavy scent of his heat rises. He drags himself to his elbows and knees. Sherlock holds his wrist loosely. John sounds distracted when he speaks, “I’m going to take a shower. And I’ll be out in the living room a while.”

His body doesn’t want to move. It wants to stay near Sherlock, as if magnetized. For a moment, Sherlock’s grip tightens on his arm--but then he lets go. John has to make an effort to get off the bed but he eventually gets his legs to cooperate, even though he wants nothing more than to crawl back under the covers and press his skin to Sherlock’s.

It feels wonderful to get his clothes off--they were too scratchy against his oversensitive skin. The tiled wall feels cool under his forehead and his forearms while he waits for the water to heat up until it’s steaming. The water sluices across his back and it feels a bit too hot, reddens the skin on his shoulders but it’s a welcome pain as he plants his feet apart and reaches back to slide a finger into himself. The instinctive thought of feeling empty is starting to claw its way back up from the back of his mind and this time John can’t turn to Sherlock like he normally would. Sherlock has twenty-some still-fresh sutures across the length of his stomach and the minimum course of pain medication--nobody could get it up that fast post-operation.

But it doesn’t stop John from imagining Sherlock pushing him up against the slippery shower wall (not even a fantasy, Sherlock had done it more than once at the tail end of their sex marathons) and somehow managing to keep purchase against the wet bathtub as he fucked John with water dripping off the end of his nose, breathing in more steam than air with every gasp.

John settles for wrapping a hand around his cock--his fingers aren’t going to be enough, god if only he had kept the dildo--and jerking before he comes with a barely contained groan. John lets the shower wash away the traces of his come. He doesn’t bother to shampoo his hair or soap up. He might had made an effort if he had any odor neutralizing soap, but he hasn’t needed that for ages. Not since he and Sherlock--

Fuck. He can’t think about Sherlock. He makes an effort to convince the omega in him that he really _doesn’t_ want to be back in the bedroom (he does) because Sherlock is fucking _incapacitated_. No need to make this harder on anyone other than himself. He deserves it, really, for being so inattentive.

He wraps a towel around himself. The cool air outside the bathroom hitting his half-naked body is almost good enough to be an orgasm. He slumps against the cool wall, leaving a damp mark before he pulls his mind together enough to remember what he wants. The pills. He hasn’t used his own room in months but he knows where they’re kept--the bottom left drawer of his desk. And he has the last of his clothes up there still, which he should probably wear.

He gets so far as to opening the drawer, only to let out a growl. Empty bottles. He’s going to have to suffer through it. Clothes sound like a terrible idea so John doesn’t bother with them, and he makes his way back down the stairs in the towel. He sits in his chair, very still, and tries not to move or think about how he can smell Sherlock all over this room. Sherlock is everywhere and John shifts in his chair--can feel himself getting wet again against the towel. Wait it out. He’s done this before. He can do it again.

Except--except he really doesn’t want to. Sherlock is just in the other room and they’re _soulbonded_ and the omega in him just doesn’t _get_ why John is still sitting here when he could be scenting Sherlock’s skin instead of his discarded possessions.

“John.”

John’s head jerks up. Sherlock stands at the threshold of their bedroom, one arm over his stomach and hunched slightly. John gets to his feet.

“Why are you still out here?”

“You shouldn’t be standing.”

“I wouldn’t be,” Sherlock points out, “If you had come back.”

“I’m on my heat,” John says.

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees, “I assure you this injury hasn’t affected my powers of observation.”

“I can’t come back to bed,” John says and it comes out as a whine like he’s already asking himself _why not?_ “I can deal with this on my own, I can’t risk you hurting yourself more.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Sherlock says and even though the corners of his lips are pinched with pain and he’s tired, he still manages to fully express his disdain, “Come back.”

John’s hand tightens on the towel and it takes a few moments of self debate, but eventually he goes back.

~

Sherlock hisses when he raises his arms too high in effort to pull the cotton shirt over the top of his head. John has half a mind to unwrap the bandages, to look at the clear liquid draining into the clean gauze and to press his lips against every suture, to explore the injured skin--but he knows that it would more than likely hurt Sherlock and that was the last thing he wanted. So instead he settles for curling up against Sherlock’s side when Sherlock lays down, mouth against Sherlock’s shoulder, legs shifting restlessly as his own lubricant made his inner thighs slippery. Sherlock closes his eyes but John knows that he’s not sleeping because he lets his hand drift idly up and down John’s side, sometimes dipping the tips of his fingers into the top of John’s arsecrack. His cock is maybe only half hard at best in his boxers but John can sense the change, the sharp increase in the scent of alpha in the room, mixing wonderfully with the scent of John’s heat.

John shivers when Sherlock’s hand slides over his hipbone. He presses a kiss against the crook of Sherlock’s arm and licks the pale skin right over the top of the bandaging. Sherlock turns his head into John’s hair and breathes deep before he says, “Come on.” He moves his arm, trying to dislodge it from around John.

“I’m going to eat you out,” Sherlock says and slides carefully down the bed so that John has more space. John only whimpers, his entire body tense, unable to articulate how much he wants it--but he finds enough self control within himself to gently put a hand against the bandages on Sherlock’s stomach.

“Stop worrying,” Sherlock says, and then lower, “I bet you taste delicious.”

And it’s all the encouragement that John needs because he finds himself lowering his arse on Sherlock’s face, Sherlock’s thumbs sliding into his arsecrack and his tongue lapping the space behind John’s balls. John’s hands fist in the sheets and it takes all of his control not to grind down on Sherlock. Sherlock makes a contented sound and traces the rim of John’s hole before he pushes his tongue in. It’s a testament to how many times they’ve done this that Sherlock finds John’s sensitive spot almost immediately--the one that has him shaking and twisting his fingers into the sheets, eyes trained on Sherlock’s still only half-hard cock and wanting desperately. Sherlock licks into him again and again, building the pleasure by slow increments, the slick muscle pressing against the edge of his prostate before flicking towards his gland and stroking down, like Sherlock is trying to suck all the lubricant that John will give him. John’s hips twitch in Sherlock’s grasp, involuntary movements barely checked by his pleasure-hazed mind.

John doesn’t know how long he rides on the crest of an orgasm because Sherlock eventually notices how close he is to the edge and stops thrusting so vigorously. He starts to lick the mixture of John’s lubricant and his own saliva softly from around John’s hole before pushing in again, slowly. John is half out of his mind with frustration and he’s only half aware of how much he’s quivering or how his sweat drips onto the clean white bandages. But finally Sherlock cuts him loose, pushes his tongue in with a renewed ferocity and John comes with a strangled shout of Sherlock’s name, like an ocean dragging him under.

It’s a miracle his arms stay locked, that he doesn’t just collapse onto Sherlock with how hard he comes. When John comes back to, his elbows are trembling and Sherlock is stroking a hand against the small of his back. He gets off Sherlock and drops onto the bed, catching his own breath before he’s ducking under Sherlock’s arm again, easily giving in to his insistent need to be pressed up against Sherlock’s side.

Sherlock looks down at him, John’s lubricant making his lips shiny. John laughs a little breathlessly, but it’s not really borne of good humor. He presses his nose to Sherlock’s side, inhaling Sherlock’s scent and says, “You can’t keep doing this.”

“What?” Sherlock sounds uncertain--the smile has faded from his face.

“This,” John says, feather light touch on the bandages, “You can’t keep risking your life.”

“You wouldn’t have had time to dodge.”

“I don’t care,” John says, “I would rather it be me than you.” He hates the way his voice sounds and he blames the cloud of heat hormones for addling his mind and the way he’s babbling now, “You understand that you’re my--everything.”

Sherlock shifts and his arm around John tightens.

“Then you understand why I did it.”


End file.
